Roses
by Misa-chi
Summary: Yoshioka Futaba, heiress to the throne of the prospering Kingdom of Red, is suddenly kidnapped just before her 18th birthday on the Festival of Flowers. What will happen to the princess?


"Yoshioka-sama, your 18th birthday is really coming close, isn't it?" Yuuri says, as she gently brushes my hair as I sit in front of the vanity.  
"Ehh? Yeah, I guess so," I snort. To be quite frank, it's no big deal to me, though the kingdom and the rest of the townspeople would love to disagree. "What's with that -sama this, -sama that, anyways Yuuri? Didn't I tell you to call me Futaba? We've gone over this so many times, haven't we?"  
"Yes yes," she soothes, still stroking strands of my auburn hair, "but soon, you will take up the throne, and under royal law–whether you like it or not–Yoshioka-sama is what you will have to be."  
"But, Yuuri! We've known each other since we were kids!" I protest, seeing the disgust in my face at such "laws of authority". Yuuri, however, has been fixated on my reddish-brown locks with her ever-so-sincere air this whole time.  
"And for such a reason, I will call you my lady." She smiles.

Yuuri and I are childhood best friends, we have both grown up in this castle since birth, and our families are quite close. I, Yoshioka Futaba, the heiress to the royal crown of the Kingdom of Red, had started up various studies and etiquette training by the time I was first seen to stand on two legs. Makita Yuuri, daughter of a family that has–for generations upon generations–served the Yoshioka lineage (with pride, I might add), of course, underwent training for the time she comes to serve me as such: head of the Royal Embassy.  
Though the difference in power of our families is evident, we as children never recognized such a thing. The same age, living in the same household, experiencing mostly the same experiences-we became close very quickly, coming to understand each other's unique quirks, as well as strengths and weaknesses.  
Makita Yuuri, a bundle of gentility, a young girl with the aura of serenity itself, never raises her voice or makes impulsive decisions–she abides by the rules–the epitome and joy of the Makita family line.  
My exact opposite.  
I–Yoshioka Futaba–born on the day of the Festival of Flowers, and soon-to-be queen and sole ruler of the Kingdom of Red, am rash and boy-like, most of the time considered irrational, have a quick tongue (not to mention temper), and a dreamer, driven by the wildest of my emotions and fantasies. I am a risk taker-adventure does not scare me.  
But despite this, I must be royalty. If public airs call for me to put on a facade, I will. I, Yoshioka Futaba, will become civilized, a future empress that has already mastered all worldly subjects and lexicons unbeknownst to the common people.  
I will become a womanly, proper icon, if I must.  
Likewise, Makita Yuuri, epitome of the Makita servanthood, secretly rules with an iron fist. Her destiny calls her to become an overseer of all duties-she has the blood of generations of servants running through her veins. Though she agrees and acts according to the wills of those in higher status than her, once the rank of Head of the Royal Embassy is passed onto her, no doubt she will make others bow down.  
Though she smiles and curtseys, inside of her soul is her a flame that will not be put out. She can be (and will be) merciless, when the occasion calls for her true self.  
These things–our hidden lives–are between the two of us only; our innate desires and intentions will be masked by our more formal, up-to-par with society personas, and only we shall know the truth.

"Yuuri!" I groan, "What are you doing? I can at least brush my own hair myself!" I exclaim, as I stand up from my cushioned stool.  
"Sit down." She commands me with her ice queen personality.  
"You will sit down, and act accordingly as the Heiress of the throne would, will you not?" She says to me, as she stops brushing and holds my hair tightly in a fist.  
Saying nothing, I sit back down sloppily, slouching with my elbows laid on the ivory vanity in front of me. "That's better," she coos, and the brushing continues. "This hair is something you should take pride in, Yoshioka-sama. You will never find this hair anywhere else. It is necessary that you care for such a thing."

My hair–though most people look to it with awe–is really nothing that special to me.  
Born on the day of the Festival of Flowers, it is said that my reddish hair was a gift from God, this hair of the color of roses. Roses symbolize not only love, but beauty, and passion. It was said that my hair was a good omen to bring prosperity, peace, and happiness to the kingdom.  
Such was not a lie. Upon my birth, the nation quickly entered a golden era (to which we are still in today). People prospered, luxuries available only to the highest of royals were now open to lower classes of people, things were good–no hunger, no revolts, no strikes.  
Indeed, it is quite a rare sight to witness a woman of orange or red hair. But quite frankly, I couldn't be bothered, Yuuri takes more pride in it than I do.

"There, beautifully straight," Yuuri revells in her accomplishment as she steps back, twirls me around, and passes me a small hand-mirror to reflect the vanity. "Just as I would expect, high quality work from Makita Yuuri herself," I smile, getting up from my seat.

"Shall we now pick your outfit for the ball?" she beams radiantly at me.  
"Do we have to–" I begin, just as fast as she interrupts, "We must!" and before you know it, I found myself whisked away into my closet doors and held prisoner along with dresses and ballgowns alike for hours.

"Yuuri, let me go! I think this one is fine!" I protest, trying to make an escape to the safety of a nearby room after finally having found the moment to slip away from Yuuri's grasp.  
I run and run, making quick turns wherever I can, dashing as fast as my bare feet will let me; but Yuuri is a crafty one, having learned the in's and out's and cracks and crevices of this entire palace.  
"We have only gone through a portion of your wardrobe, Yoshioka-sama!" she yells at she runs after me with handfuls of hangers.  
"I said, I like this one!" I yell back, and at the end of the hallway, turn toward her.

Yes, I thought, this is most definitely the one.  
Yuuri stops in her tracks–as do the jingling sounds of hangers galloping through the hallways–and her eyes widen, along with her mouth.  
With all my might, I look her straight in the face and repeat, "I like this one, Yuuri."  
She says nothing, and for a slight moment, indignance crawls across her face with her fingers tightening around the wires.  
Yet, she relents, and gives me that gentle smile once again,  
"Yes, I think I do too."

"It is getting late, Yoshioka-sama." Yuuri says to me as she tidies up the last bit of rummaged mess inside my closet. "We shall go over the details of make-up and ornaments another time, yes?"  
"Ugh, Yuuri you know I don't care for those things" I say, plopping myself onto my fluffy bed.  
"Yes, we will!" She chirps, and the closet doors close. She stands there for a second looking at my exhausted self and chuckles, I notice, and return her a friendly–though somewhat worn down–smile.  
"Good night, Yoshioka-sama." she sing-songs to me, leaving for the door.  
"It's Futaba, to you, Makita Yuuri!" I exclaim, making sure to get the last word.  
Finally, the door shuts, and I am left alone.

I take this private time to walk in front of my mirror and observe the person I see staring back at me.  
Long, straight, light red hair, pale skin free from blemish, hazel eyes. Truly, you would expect the person in the mirror to be someone much more dignified and feminine, especially with such a beautiful gown on.  
I at least have a good sense of decision making-this dress is the cherry on top, what fortune it was to have escaped with this on!

Strapless, Sweetheart (I believe that is what the tailors in town call this type of style) hem, bodice laced up in the back and dainty buttons in the front, and tulle layering that flows from the hips down and that most elegantly splits in the middle to form ruffled asymmetrical hemlines that make way for my legs as I move.  
This white dress is even fairer than my own skin.

I turn off the lights of my room and am warmly greeted by the moonlight streaming through the large, glass window aside my bed. I walk towards it, placing my hand on the glass.  
This glass will always be in the fondest of my memories.  
As a child, I would escape my royal studies often by swinging from this very window down onto the Royal Garden right below.  
It was a sight that always enraptured my soul as a young girl, and it still does today.  
It will be a shame, though. Once I take up the throne officially, I will have no time to walk idly and admire the scenery, will I?  
Never again to have adventures through this gateway to freedom.  
I close my eyes and lean heavily onto the window, as if this was our last chance of seeing one another. I simply wish to keep this familiar object close to my heart.

_Ah._  
_Eh?_  
_Did I leave the window unlocked?_  
_I'm falling._  
I abruptly open my eyes as a wave of shock runs through me.  
The glass was shattered.  
I hear sirens wailing all around me now.  
Clanks of metal are everywhere.  
But I'm falling,  
spiraling downward to the garden I had been so intimate with over the years.

**"We've got her!"**


End file.
